


there was a song carried by the wind

by asdfgjkl



Category: The Song of Achilles - Madeline Miller
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Death all over the place, M/M, Tragedy, Trojan War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-06
Updated: 2014-09-06
Packaged: 2018-02-16 08:30:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 830
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2262861
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asdfgjkl/pseuds/asdfgjkl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A man looked at Achilles and saw gold. A warrior looked at Achilles and saw godly prowess. </p>
<p>Patroclus looked at Achilles and saw everything. </p>
<p>It was impossible to live with everything - air, will, life - robbed from you.</p>
            </blockquote>





	there was a song carried by the wind

He felt a hand shaking his shoulders, but swatted it away drowsily.

The hand came back insistently.

“Patroclus,” a voice said. “Pa-tro-clus.”

The chambers of his heart leaked poison and he opened his eyes. Golden threads enchanted his sight.

“Achilles,” he breathed.

The boy in question flashed him a smile. “Were you dreaming?” he asked.

Patroclus started to nod. _Yes_ , he wanted to say. _Yes, I was_ , but he couldn’t remember of what he had been dreaming about. His head dropped half-nod.

There was an armor and blinding light and a great arrow.

Patroclus woke up with a bloody intake of air.

*

It hurt everywhere, and he wanted to end his suffering with a messy crash against an incoming chariot.

Chariot.

His chest shriveled up.

Achilles.

The dull throbbing of the various wounds scattered around his body were ceaseless. They hurt more than the pain of losing Achilles, but he was a surgeon, and they were earthly wounds. With a needle and patience, they would close and heal.

Achilles was godly. The wound Achilles left, in the shape of himself right in the core of Patroclus, it was godly too.

Patroclus wasn’t favored by the gods. He didn’t know how to patch up Achilles-shaped holes.

*

He stayed in their tent, day in, day out. He ate the food that was brought to him – one spoon, two spoons, thr- he vomited it back out. He drank the water that was provided by Briseis.

She kissed him once, after Achilles. He closed his eyes and pretended it was Achilles’ lips, sucking enticingly on his, making love to him. He held her shoulders between his hands and dreamt up imaginary muscles. When they parted, there were tears in her eyes.

He felt cold.

He should be the one crying – he who lost Achilles to glory – not her.

_Not her_.

*

The sun hurt his eyes, but he wouldn’t stop looking at it. Never. The sun stepped closer to him and he realized it was Achilles.

He wouldn’t stop looking at Achilles too.

They stood, two boys, in the backyard of his memories. It was a good day. Chiron’s mountains were being friendly. Giddy dandelions swayed through the breeze. Flushed petals landed on Achilles’ hair. A crown from the gods themselves.

Achilles walked to where Patroclus was – steady, his footsteps never faltering. The harsh buckles of his shoes laced his calves.

“Patroclus,” he started, but Patroclus interrupted him.

“ _Again_ ,” he whispered.

Achilles cocked his head to one side, confused.

“Say it again,” Patroclus said. “My name.”

Achilles was in front of Patroclus. He cupped Patroclus’ face with his hands. He swiped a thumb against Patroclus’ lower lip. He seemed to breathe Patroclus in as the other boy wondered how he ever received this privilege.

“Why?” Achilles asked.

“It’s beautiful when you say it.”

Patroclus was about to stop there, but they told each other everything. “When I hear you say it, I feel worthy.”

Achilles had a hand in the black of Patroclus’ hair, and his fingers were dancing amongst the sad locks when he asked, “Of who?”

It was Patroclus’ turn to be confused. “What do you mean?”

“Worthy of who, Patroclus? Who are you trying to impress?”

_Worthy of you_. “No one. I just-”

“You are worthy to me,” Achilles said, with a fierceness Patroclus feasted on. “Isn’t that enough?”

_Yes, yes it is_ , Patroclus thought, and told Achilles just as much.

“Yes. Of course.”

*

It’s been four days after Achilles – four days after Patroclus started fasting – when he heard the elegant picking of strings.

It was night. He was in bed. With all the energy he could muster, he turned his head to where he kept his trunks, in the corner of the tent, and saw Achilles playing his mother’s lyre.

It shouldn’t be possible, but who was he to deny Achilles anything? If Achilles wanted a visit, it was his right to demand one.

The song Achilles weaved was grand. It spoke of infinite stars and glaring suns. It spoke of a thousand million suns and burning lovers.

Patroclus smiled. He opened his mouth to say something, but Achilles silenced him with another song.

This one was salty bedrooms and a cot beside a bed and figs.

“I’m sorry,” Patroclus said, crying.

Achilles blinked. _For?_

“I broke my promise. I’m sorry. I’m so so so so so sorry.”

“You didn’t,” Achilles said, and his voice cut through the night with the same precision as his spear. “You made me happy. Happier than any hero, mortal, or god.”

“You’re lying.” Patroclus was still crying.

Achilles was beside Patroclus. He leaned down and crawled into bed with him. He kissed Patroclus along his tear tracks.

“When did I ever lie to you?”

There was a song carried by the wind. Neither Achilles nor Patroclus knew what it said. Neither cared.

*

Patroclus’ body was cold when Briseis went to check on him the next day, and his tent had already started smelling of rot.


End file.
